Holy Oceanus
by Dharke
Summary: Sequel to the movie. After an exorcism goes awry, Constantine must stop a demon from taking over his mind and body. Latest update: Angela's revelation.
1. Prologue

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

The following tale steals from many rich sources, including the movie, the deleted scenes, the video game and the 'Hellblazer' graphic novels. It is **very**, **very**, **very** loosely based on 'Hunger' from the 'Original Sins' collection, and a story line of my own creation. Here's a useful key; the good aspects are stolen, the bad aspects are mine.

**Prologue**

"I'm baaaaaack…" Balthazar teased.

And he was glad. Despite having been born in Hell, he regarded Earth as his natural habitat. Earth was such splendid fun! He adored human beings, especially when they suffered mentally and physically. It was even better when he caused the agony. They were such good fun to tease and taunt.

"Pleased to see me?" he taunted.

He committed the same crimes in Hell, but the damned weren't nearly as satisfying. Aside from terror and agony, Hell's people no longer experienced emotions. Eternal torture destroyed wounded minds, whereas Earth's coexistence of pain and pleasure marred and healed injured souls. Such unpredictable suffering generated a whole rainbow of emotions.

"Finger lickin' good," he sniggered.

Even Earth's humans were more diverse. Hell was filled with an immoral flavour, but he found the meat too sour and tainted. On Earth a luscious delicacy was available. He loved the taste of virtuous half angels, whose meat was sweet and pure. He wanted his enemy's flesh, where sweet and sour lived in disharmony.

"The Great John Constantine," he sneered.

Although Earth was an excellent feeding ground, he'd returned with another purpose in mind. Lucifer had given specific orders. But before Balthazar obeyed them, he'd fulfil his own selfish needs first. He wanted revenge. It would be bitter sweet and such splendid fun!

"My first target," he snarled.

He stood in the doorway, studying the hydrotherapy room. A mossy pool marred the very centre, like a stagnant wound weeping green sludge onto fevered flesh. Two human parasites contaminated the rancid water. One dead, one alive. Both longed to swap places.

"Fresh meat!" he jeered.

The dead Mexican floated backwards and forwards, his corpse greasing the pool of life. Aquatic hands pushed and pulled, throwing humankind into different waters. The shallow end offered protection and security, whereas the deep smouldered with danger and fear. He'd visited the deep end far too frequently. Now he lay facedown in the pool; having paid the ultimate price for rediscovering the Sangre De Dio.

"Such a lively companion!" Balthazar cackled. "The life and **_soul_** of the paaarty!"

Gabriel did not respond.

He looked into her eyes, but his stare wasn't returned. Instead she watched the Mexican's carcass, as it floated past her broken body. She stood in the pool's very centre, where the seepage was deepest. Aside from her head and shoulders, the water claimed everything.

"Your plan's worked wonders," he gloated. "Constantine's certainly quivering in abject horror!"

Gabriel finally returned his gaze. Trying to express humble indignation, she furrowed her fair eyebrows and sharp features. Owing to the slumped, shivering shoulders, he merely saw an exhausted, pathetic human being. Protruding from her collarbones were two, spindly, broken bones. A reminder of her previous life.

"Looks like the farmer broke your wings," Balthazar ridiculed. "Chicken."

She did not reply.

Desiring a more satisfying answer, he approached the ailing pool. Gabriel stared silently, an aquamarine reflection dancing over her translucent skin. The luminescent water generated an undulating pattern, which blemished the surrounding room. The palpitating walls writhed and wiggled in sickly green agony. He cherished this impression. Like a watery timepiece, the shadowy patterns announced night's arrival. John and Angela had left hours ago. It was quite the inconvenience time stopped still in Hell, but Balthazar had made sure to familiarise himself with it.

"What do you want?" she managed.

He was silent.

Sensing her self consciousness, he examined her visage to determine why. Gabriel's bedraggled hair obscured her face, especially the lofty, puritanical cheekbones. Through the pale blonde hair a blood red bruise glowed angrily, whilst the telltale marks of four knuckles grew more and more prominent. Simultaneously angered and humoured, he remembered how the same fist had damaged his own jaw. He would wreak sweet revenge on John Constantine! This resolute vow cooled his rage, allowing him to enjoy an untainted spell of sadistic mirth.

"Did you walk into a door?" he mocked. "Or is Constantine treating his women well?"

"Leave me alone," she pleaded. "Finish what John started. Kill me."

Balthazar laughed. A deep, scornful laugh.

He walked towards the pool, stopping only when he'd reached the edge. Miniature waves washed over his business shoes, turning the burnished leather into a wet black, like frozen tar. His laugh subsided. He listened to the hydrotherapy room. The only background noises issued from the lapping water, as it inhaled and exhaled over the pool's boundaries. It gnawed greedily on the rubber flooring, reminding him of Hell's Scavenger Scouts, nibbling noisily on fresh carrion.

"Music to my ears!" he sniggered.

"Stop delaying my death," she begged. "Just kill me."

He laughed again. Crueller then before.

He stood opposite Gabriel, watching and waiting. Her humanity sickened him. He wanted to break her windpipe. His palms curled into fists. Balanced on one hand was a silver coin, his sudden hunger generated its movement. It rocked backwards and forwards over his tensed knuckles, his murderous greed reluctantly relaxing. The hot metal always calmed his pernicious appetite.

"How ironic," he sneered. "Constantine didn't kill me, but you did. Looks like the tables have turned."

"You don't belong here," she declared. "Go back to Hell!"

"My talents are wasted in Hell," he scoffed. "Even the boss noticed. He has a bad reputation, but deep down he's a very generous chap. I mean who else would have sent the medium's sister to Heaven? Or who would've removed Constantine's cancer? God? I don't think so! The boss is a very generous chap indeed."

"Stop gloating!" she protested. "Just shut up!"

"Occasionally," he started. "Generosity fails him. He absolutely despises half angels. I despise them too, especially ones who are now human. At least they make a decent meal."

"Stop torturing me with your threats," she lamented. "Just kill me. I'd rather die then spend another moment in this human body."

"Good!" he jeered. "And that's why I'm going to let you live!"

She shuddered.

Physical coldness had not caused the shudder, for the room smouldered relentlessly. The warmth didn't exceed Hell's climate, but it felt lovely nonetheless. He could not absorb heat through his outer shell, and so relied upon the coin's touch. The metal was susceptible to hot and cold. And he was susceptible to its caress. Despite his skin's flaws, he felt very proud of his exterior mask. He loved boasting about his handsome human features, whilst wearing expensive business suits. He was admired by gullible mortals and feared by jealous half breeds. Balthazar enjoyed the attention, no matter how unpleasant.

"My talents are wasted in Hell," he repeated. "And your suffering would be wasted in Heaven."

Another shudder attacked her body.

His wealthy position in society made the half breeds especially jealous. He possessed a multibillion dollar enterprise, and controlled the lives of those who worked there. The organisation even featured his own initials; 'BZR Brokerage Corporate Offices'. All this made Earth such splendid fun. And now Gabriel's suffering was the icing on the cake!

"What do you want with me?" she enquired.

"Aww," he mocked. "Surrendering so quickly? Surely being human isn't **_that _**bad? At least you're not half chicken now. Don't worry about laying anymore eggs for that fowl farmer God."

"Leave me alone," she pleaded. "Let me die in peace."

"Die?" he scoffed. "How are you going to die? Drown yourself in the pool? Suicide will send you straight to Hell! You won't find any peace down there."

The hydrotherapy room smelt like Hell. Acrid smoke and scorched rubber dominated the air. He loved these smells. The noxious fumes would have caused the average mortal to cough and vomit. He wondered whether the tremendous heat and the harmful stenches effected Gabriel's human constitution. His malicious hunger grew.

"What if I could help you?" he taunted.

She frowned. "And why would you help me?"

"The boss sent me back for a reason," he bragged. "If you assist me, he'll look favourably on you. And if you're lucky, you might even be promoted to half demon."

"Demon?" she sniffed. "Demons are lower than humans. What gives you the impression I'd want to be a half demon?"

"Oh, please!" he scoffed. "I hope you're joking! We are far superior to humans! And far more powerful too."

"Superior? More powerful?" she grimaced. "Does the same go for half angels? If a mortal man could thwart our plans, we must have been inferior to our species."

"We underestimated him!" he snapped. "But this time, I have a secret weapon. Constantine will never beat us again!"

"And what exactly do you want?" she queried.

"I must fool Constantine into damning his own soul. And then I will kill him," he sneered. "But if he can trick the boss, no doubt he'll trick me too. My secret weapon's killer, but I'm not smart enough to use it. And that's where I need you."

Gabriel's defeated demeanour slowly disappeared. The self-piteous expression darkening her features brightened into fierce determination. Her slumped, broken shoulders straightened into sharp, angelic arches. She was no longer a pathetic human being. She was a pathetic human being, with a sudden will to live.

"Are you in?" he demanded.

His words spurred her into movement. She waded through the pool, sending mottled water splashing and swirling violently. The manmade lagoon grew shallower and shallower, until her waist was free of its current. Her ruined clothing humoured him. The vest top hung in filthy tatters, whilst the trousers were blackened by stagnant smoke.

"Fresh pair of clothes?" he jeered.

She glared. "You love human suffering so much."

"Now that's the spirit!" he crowed. "No more defenceless crap. It doesn't suit you, Gabby."

Suddenly defiant, she ascended the pool's steps. Water trickled from her hair and clothes in silvery streaks. Despite being human, she still retained her angelic radiance.

"Your plans are careless," she criticised. "I betrayed you before. I could betray you again."

"It will never happen," he snarled. "If you want to rise above humanity, you'll need my help. You won't betray me again."

"You must be getting something out of this too," she mused. "What's your selfish motive? Or do you merely love seeing John suffer?"

"Both," he smirked. "**_If_** I fail to acquire Constantine's soul, then I can say adieu to Earth. The boss will make sure I stay in Hell forever."

Gabriel abandoned the hydrotherapy pool. She approached Balthazar, her bare feet slapping wetly on the smooth flooring. The peculiar aquamarine light danced across her body. The dance was accompanied by music. Somewhere in the distance, sirens communicated their sadness through long, mournful wails.

"Sounds like it's time to go," he affirmed.

"Yes," she supplied. "Let's."

"And **_let's _**send Constantine to Hell," his voice grew cold. "The great John Constantine."

**ESTIMATED UPDATE FOR CHAPTER ONE: SATURDAY 6TH AUGUST**


	2. Chapter One

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

A huge shout out to Jim, jezz, Bryan James and Obsessively Compulsive. Thank you ever so much for the reviews. They were very much appreciated!

**Chapter One**

The great John Constantine felt neglected. He wanted the company of his remaining affiliates, yet the very thought filled him with self loathing. He ignored these emotions, but his endeavours were in vain. Self denial made his mental turmoil intensify.

"Why does it bother me?" he brooded.

When he sacrificed an associate, his lonely seed blossomed from pity's condemned soil. The past had stolen useful allies, and the seed had grown. The present had stolen beloved companions, and the seed had grown into a tree. Underneath its blooming branches slept three friends. Father Hennessy, Beeman and Chas.

"I never watered it with tears," he contemplated. "Only poisoned it with bitter fears."

He needed sex. Nothing else. Just sex. Angela? Constantine assumed she favoured solemn commitment over casual copulation. She wasn't even in Los Angeles, thus making the idea very unrealistic. Where had she gone? Mexico to recuperate. Back next week. Damn! He needed sex. It would soothe his desolate anguish.

"Women!" he scoffed. "They're running from me, or I'm running from them."

Angela hadn't run. She'd requested his company on holiday, but he had abruptly declined. It was too intimate. He'd just endanger her life. He already had several skeletons in his cupboard, and he didn't want anymore. He would run. Again.

"I'm like a magnet for the damned," he sighed. "I touch someone and they die. By my hand, or by an external one."

Who was next? Feeling alarmed and cautious, Constantine's attention returned to his present location. He was seated in an expensive restaurant. He hated expensive restaurants. He hated the reputation associated with them. And he hated the glamorous people. So why had he come? When he suffered from self-pity, he indulged in stupid, spur of the moment activities.

"The damn story of my life," he grumbled. "Glad I don't suffer financially."

He didn't have a **_normal_** job, and so didn't earn a **_normal _**wage. He was a voluntary exorcist, working with the Roman Catholic Church. Aside from a few token donations, he received nothing for his exorcisms. After Beeman's death, his other ventures had ended. Beeman had travelled overseas, searching for lost relics, which he'd sold to wealthy clientele. Constantine had purchased many of these artefacts, and had traded them for triple the original fee. He'd never told Beeman this small fact… The tremendous profits ensured John's future retirement, whilst his opulent parents funded his present day operations. They'd died ten years ago, leaving him with a huge inheritance.

"Even they weren't immune," he mused. "At least I was an only child."

He wanted to forget. And he would. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a small, cardboard box. Following an inborn routine, he shook the packet violently. The contents rustled loudly. Tearing open the top, he removed a piece of nicotine flavoured gum. Inserting the strip into his mouth, the nicotine flooded his senses, and contrasted with his prior meal. As he shoved the box back into his breast pocket, he found himself enjoying the discordant piquancy. He blamed his bad taste on cigarette depravation.

"My God," he growled. "I miss cigarettes."

Two weeks ago, Lucifer had cured his lung cancer. And for two weeks, Constantine hadn't touched cigarettes. He didn't fancy getting lung cancer again, but the nicotine cravings persisted. When the pangs became too agonising, he'd wash them away with alcohol. Good and bad health were both painful.

"He always did have a sick sense of humour," he reminisced.

John resumed his vigilance over the restaurant. He sat outside the building, where the midday sun did not shine. Seeking relief from the seething summer weather, he'd chosen a table covered in jagged shadows. Despite the sudden heat wave, he continued to wear his formal black clothing. He led a routinely life. But no matter how much he fought for tranquillity, the smouldering climate continued to boil temperature and temperament.

"Warmed by God's love," he mocked.

Large social groups occupied the sunlit tables. No one else sat in the darkness. No one else sat alone. The realisations made him feel bitter and envious. The diners were blind and naïve, and so led normal, peaceful lives. They'd never glimpsed Satan, nor visited Hell. Demons and half breeds didn't hunt them, nor murder their companions. They had friendships which would last forever. The lucky bastards!

"Sentimental prick!" he fumed. "I don't **_need_** friends! I'm a selfish asshole! Hennessey was weak, Beeman irritated me, and Chas had a smart mouth! And I hate Angela!"

Self denial made his jealousy grow. Oblivious to his sullen presence, the diners chatted and laughed. He distinguished two different sounds; the masculine, uproarious chortle, and the feminine, hysterical titter. They even looked the same; the men were in their fifties with greying hair and three piece suits, whereas the women were slightly younger and dressed in smart black dresses.

"Do I really want to be normal?" he pondered. "I could change. I could end the exorcisms, ignore my True Sight, and stop interfering with half breed affairs. I could get a proper job and proper friends. But I won't. It's boring. I need the adrenaline rush."

Constantine's mutterings went unnoticed in the noisy restaurant. Despite the tumultuous cries, he heard a sudden sharp buzzing issue nearby. The new sound piqued his curiosity, and he instantly located its whereabouts. It originated from his table. The speckled plastic supported a plate of half eaten pasta. The food was smothered in a white dressing, and so he immediately noticed the single, black speck soiling the surface. A blow fly crawled across the meal, its tiny little legs leaving microscopic footprints. The insect buzzed repeatedly, as though voicing its enthusiasm.

"Bloody freeloader," he snarled.

A fork stood beside his plate. Grabbing the steel implement, he steadied it above the accursed pest. Preoccupied by the leftovers, the insect didn't acknowledge the ominous object. A pronged shadow fell across the plate. The fly did not flee. Earth's microcosm. The fly represented humankind, whilst the food's colouring and texture resembled snow covered mountains. And he held Satan's trident above the barren, forsaken land.

With a sudden flick of his wrist, he sent the fork plunging downwards. The tongs pierced the fly's black body, brittle flesh crunching sickeningly. He wondered if flies felt pain. As though in answer, the pest's monotonous buzz became an alarmed wail.

Desiring a closer inspection, he turned the fork upside down. The fly was now eye level. Three sharp prongs protruded from its thorax, the very ends smeared in white sauce. He watched the fly trying desperately to escape, its hairy legs writhing backwards and forwards. The insect's constant cries filled him with simultaneous satisfaction and remorse.

"Welcome to Hell," he jeered.

As he scrutinised the squirming pest, something strange snagged his attention. He abruptly dropped the fork, the metal clattering against the plastic tabletop. He ignored the fly's incessant moans, and studied the bizarre spectacle instead.

"What the Hell?" he murmured.

Opposite the exorcist stood a large table, containing an even larger man. John hadn't noticed him before, as he blended in with the crowd. Like the other restaurant goers, he wore a formal, dark suit. The similarities stopped there. He was grotesquely overweight. The stranger's receding hairline made his bulbous skull and hanging jowls look even worse. Several flies crawled across his forehead, feeding on the sweat there. Whenever he leant backwards or forwards, the metal chair would creak threateningly. His capacious stomach nudged and jostled the table violently. His suit buttons had difficulty holding the swollen mass of fat and flesh.

"Jesus," Constantine remarked. "No wonder famine's never been eradicated."

The tabletop had completely disappeared under an accumulation of cups and plates. Some empty, some full. A roasted chicken stood in the centre, its skin scorched to perfection. Several soups surrounded the burnt bird, like an assortment of kaleidoscopic spotlights. And there was more. Voluminous meals were crammed into every possible space, whereas the empty dishes were stacked together. Broiled meat and fresh vegetables wafted into one, forming a foul, cloying stench. Fouler than sulfur. Fouler than decay.

"He's eating the whole goddamn restaurant," John complained.

But the man's eating habits were far fouler. He attacked a plate of spaghetti, with podgy, fat fingers. Like a fly's fidgeting maw, his writhing hands collected maggoty spaghetti strands. When he'd harvested enough, he shoved the scraps into his mouth. Gnashing frenziedly, his yellowed teeth smashed the food into a revolting pulp. The mashed contents spilled from his quaking jaws, and smeared across his dark overcoat. Mouth, chin and hands were smothered in red sauce; he resembled a gnarled predator, feeding on rancid meat.

"Beautiful!" Constantine retched.

The man's corpulent features were wrinkled in fearful desperation. The flies rejoiced. Whilst he attacked the spaghetti, he swiped at the minuscule irritations. His reddened palm frightened the pests away. Once the hand had gone, they immediately returned. His fingers had left behind a red smudge. Now the flies dined on sweet sweat and sour sauce.

"He'll have a heart attack soon," the exorcist predicted.

The neighbouring diners noticed the man's abhorrent eating habits. They cast sidelong glances at each other, their expressions communicating revulsion and disbelief. The happy, bright atmosphere of the restaurant had darkened into anticipation and perplexity.

"Something's not right," John realised.

The man finished his spaghetti. Squealing angrily, he flung the empty plate against the ground. The porcelain smashed into jagged fragments, and leftover sauce reddened the white tiles. The obstreperous crash plunged the restaurant into deathly silence.

Squawking in frustration, the man leapt to his feet. The force sent his chair toppling backwards. He leant across the table, his arms reaching for the roast chicken. He attacked the bird with outstretched hands. Grease stained his red digits. Predatory talons tore the carcass apart. Flesh lodged underneath his fingernails. He was oblivious. He shovelled meaty chunks into his gaping, drooling beak. And ate flesh and bone. Gristle and fat. Anything.

"Something's definitely not right," Constantine repeated. "He's…"

In only five minutes, the obese man had lost weight. A deflated balloon now replaced his swollen abdomen. The suit was too big for his shrivelled frame, and the baggy sleeves dogged his reckless movements. Even the fat, limp skin marring his face, had started to tighten.

"Damn!" the exorcist cursed. "Another mess to investigate."

John hated getting involved, so he stalled instead. He suddenly noticed his abandoned drink. A full shot glass stood beside his neglected meal. The rich brown elixir glistened invitingly. Seizing the glass, he quickly downed the contents in one go. The alcohol tasted warm and stale. Incensed by this small displeasure, he smacked the glass against the tabletop. The solid crack spurred him into action, and he jumped to his feet.

"This'll be fun," Constantine grumbled.

He approached the madman. From various tables, he sensed cautious eyes watching him. He hated being the centre of attention, so he ignored these restaurant goers. Suddenly craving a cigarette, Constantine realised he'd swallowed his nicotine gum with the alcohol.

"Shit," he swore.

He needed nicotine.

By the time he'd reached the table, he had obtained some new gum. Chewing vigorously, he stood near the lunatic. The madman didn't notice his presence, and continued to devour the roast chicken. John realised that the maniac had grown even thinner. Wrinkled twigs now replaced his fat, swollen fingers, whilst the flesh on his face had tightened considerably.

"What's the matter?" Constantine asked. "Did you skip breakfast?"

The man froze. He wide, bulging, blue eyes stared at the exorcist. Mashed chicken and saliva dribbled from his gaping mouth. The soiled hands were tensed, as though in terror or sudden realisation. The gaunt fingers were wrapped around the corpse's ravaged ribcage. He was about to tear the bones apart.

"Fooooood!" the lunatic groaned.

"Aaaaaaand?" John mimicked.

The man straightened. He was shorter than Constantine, but his stare contained a ferocious intensity.

"FOOOOOOD!" the maniac roared.

The diners uttered frightened screams. These cries provoked the man. With surprising speed, he lurched across the table. The table rocked violently, upsetting all the plates. They smashed against the ground, sending food and porcelain crashing everywhere. The lunatic lunged again, and the rocking table rocked no more. It clattered against the cement flooring, plastic legs severed beyond repair.

Before Constantine could react, the man slammed into his chest. The exorcist lost his balance. Landing on his backbone, pain knocked the oxygen from his lungs. As he gasped for breath, the lunatic pinned him to the ground. Greasy hands crushed his shoulders, soiling his expensive overcoat. The madman's feet pulverised his knees, so he couldn't move his legs. John was forced to stare into his attacker's wide, bulging eyes. They stared at him hungrily.

"A little help please!" Constantine choked.

But nobody helped him.

A manmade thunderstorm buffeted the restaurant. Tables and chairs fell over, bellowing thunderously. Expensive china and silverware shattered against the ground, the crashes resembling broken hail. The diners screamed hysterically and ran for their lives. But the lightening had already struck.

"Selfish bastards!" the exorcist shouted.

Absolutely furious, John spat in the lunatic's face. Nicotine gum struck his assailant's forehead, squelching wetly. It lingered there momentarily, before dropping to the ground. The maniac didn't even acknowledge the incident.

"Must eat!" the man moaned.

The lunatic's mouth leered nearer and nearer. Constantine stared into the gaping, growing, gorge. Mangled flesh and putrid fluids smeared the toothy stones. Constant suicides had broken those rocks. Gathering in the chasm's corners were more mashed remains, whilst a thick paste lined the writhing, wriggling canyon walls. He smelt the foul conglomeration of rancid wind and roasted meat.

"Gah!" the exorcist retched.

The monstrous hands tightened around John's shoulders, but they'd neglected to secure his lower arms. Reaching into his overcoat pocket, Constantine removed the Holy knuckle-dusters. Slipping his fingers through the holes, the comfortable weight reassured him. He curled his hand into a fist and the gold squeezed back, as though ready for battle. Weapons were more useful than friends.

"Do you like your meat tenderised?" the exorcist demanded.

The madman exposed his teeth in an agonised groan. Constantine felt the fevered breath burning his bare neck.

"Asshole," John snarled.

The lunatic lunged for his throat.

"This is for wasting my gum!" the exorcist roared.

The knuckle-dusters collided into the man's jawbone. He was sent rocketing backwards, his grip on John's shoulders and legs promptly broken. An assortment of mashed food, saliva and blood guttered from his mandible. The regurgitated mess smashed against the restaurant tiles. So did the lunatic.

Constantine got to his feet, spasms of pain nipping his bruised spine. Ignoring the minor irritations, he returned the knuckle-dusters to their original location.

"Glad I didn't sell these to Midnite," John remarked.

Only he spoke in the quiescent restaurant. He studied the wrecked surroundings. Tables and chairs were upturned, their severed legs scattered across the ground. Shattered plates and trodden food soiled the damaged tiles. Most of the diners had fled, but a small percentage sat stupidly in their seats. They stared at John, idiotic expressions frozen on their faces.

"Thanks for your help!" Constantine lowered his voice. "I have to do everything by my goddamn self."

With cautious movements, he approached the man's rigid body. John was amazed at how he'd practically shrivelled away to nothing. His clothes looked four sizes too big. He lay on his back, a hand pressed against his chest. Heart attack? The hands and fingers had grown even more skeletal in appearance. The lunatic's face was little more than a skull, wrapped in strained flesh. The eyes had rolled back in the skull and were buried inside two hollow, black sockets.

"Jesus," he murmured. "He's nothing but skin and bone."

Standing beside his fallen head, he tried to avoid the gruesome expression. He knelt over the man, his spine still complaining now and again. Pressing an index finger against his neck, he couldn't find a pulse.

"Impossible," he hesitated. "He starved to death."

Constantine wanted a cigarette.

**ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 12TH AUGUST**


	3. Chapter Two

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

Big shout out to Xelena, Jim and Grey Faerie32. Thank you so much for the reviews! Also, the character at the end of this chapter belongs to the 'Hellblazer' comic book.

**Chapter Two**

"I'm an idiot," Angela Dodson declared.

She stood beside the bathroom door, with her ear pressed against the unyielding wood. For the past two hours, she'd listened intently. Now and again a peculiar humming sound emerged from the other side. She was frightened. She blamed John Constantine; he'd shown her the true nature of the equinox. There were no comforting stars, brightening Earth's shadowy night, and no benevolent God, protecting the darkening daylight.

New knowledge and new fear blackened her imagination. What made those horrible noises? Demons? Half Breeds? Mammon?

"I'm just being silly," she whispered. "I worry too much. It's probably just a few flies buzzing around."

Despite these reassuring words, she did not reach for the doorknob. Terror iced her limbs. She hated this unexpected weakness. As a police officer, she prided herself on being courageous and self-reliant. But when the sounds had first issued, both strengths had promptly melted away. It must be John's fault.

"Inimical asshole," she sniffed. "I always befriend the bastards."

What a relaxing holiday! So far, she'd visited Mexico for a week. Why had she gone? With each passing day, she regretted it more and more. She missed Los Angeles. She missed John Constantine. Fiery indignation interrupted cold apprehension. Why had he declined such a generous invitation? She'd offered to pay for his travel and accommodation. And he'd refused. **_Why?_**

"A different breed of bastard," she meditated. "They usually take advantage of me by now."

A frantic crash resonated from the sealed chamber, and mocked her plaintive musings. Her mental brooding became physical alarm. She listened. Silence. The surroundings were too quiet. Aside from the peculiar noises, only her heartbeat resounded throughout the apartment. Usually the neighbouring British football hooligans awoke by now. She often heard them swearing and shouting through the cheap, plaster walls. From their frequent bellows, she'd gathered that England were playing against Mexico in the Championship Finals. She hoped Mexico won.

"Why am I so stupid sometimes?" she complained. "Why did I come here?"

She didn't have a rational answer. There were no blood ties, only mental ones. Something inexplicable had enticed her into the country. Something she did not understand. Something that John had resurrected. He'd changed her life dramatically, and had invaded her thoughts. **_Yet again._**

"He's not interested, Angela," she scolded. "Just forget him! Concentrate on the door first, then cry later."

In some respects, she was glad that he'd dismissed her proposal. His snide remarks about the hotel would have provoked many explosive arguments. She'd already fought with the hotel staff, regarding the resort's false star status. The brochure had claimed the retreat was worth five stars. And the hotel management had claimed the brochure was four years out of date. Five subtracted by four. One star.

"I won't tell John," she vowed. "He already thinks I'm an idiot. And at the moment, he's right. I'm worrying about nothing. The bathroom is empty. Now turn the handle, Angela!"

But she didn't budge. She lingered inside the apartment's antechamber, standing between a large lounge and a small kitchen. She'd stood there for far too long. Morning had transformed into afternoon. It felt like days since she'd awoken from a night's restless sleep.

On first entering the antechamber, she'd heard movement issuing from the bathroom. Angela had quickly returned to the bedroom, where she'd dressed and holstered her gun. Once she had applied her makeup, she'd initiated a vigil over the foreboding door. Listening and waiting.

"I'm a stupid, cowardly police officer," she lamented.

As though in agreement, a shrill wail seeped through the closed entrance.

Recoiling from the doorway, her heart thundered violently. Help! She needed **_protecting_**. No! She needed **_protection_**. She remembered the holster, tucked into her blouse pocket. Removing the firearm, the weapon instantly calmed her turbulent heartbeats. She pointed the gun at the closed door, her hands suddenly steady. She wasn't a stupid, cowardly police officer anymore.

"If there's any trouble," she began. "Just pull the trigger."

She clutched the gun tenaciously, and the boiling metal almost blistered her skin. A heat wave had recently charred Mexico, so the weapon's unusual warmth wasn't supernatural. The hotel's air conditioning was broken, causing the room to feel even hotter. Hotter than Hell. Perspiration beaded her forehead, whilst shivers shook her spine. An agglomeration of hot and cold; an agglomeration of anger and fear.

"I'm such a fool," she repeated. "I should have stayed in L.A. At least air conditioning is invented there."

Seeking relief from the heat, she'd undone the first three buttons of her blouse. It did not help. Perspiration made a remarkable adhesive; gluing the thin, cream fabric against her back. Black cycling shorts clung to her thighs, exaggerating the muscular curves. Her forehead was plastered in sweat soaked locks, some strands even obscured her eyesight. She wanted to reorganise her hair, clothes and makeup, but potential danger commanded her full attention.

So the reddish brown flakes continued to annoy her; spilling stubbornly across her blouse. The very ends touched her shoulders, like gentle fingertips caressing her back. She wondered if he'd ever- NO! She would not think about him. He didn't want her friendship, and she didn't want his either.

"We're complete opposites anyway," she theorised. "Detective Weiss is more my type. Plus, he's always sending me those lovely pink flowers."

But she wasn't soulfully satisfied.

Another strident shriek interrupted her sudden self indulgence. He was quickly forgotten. She clenched the gun more tightly, the scorched steel searing her skin. She listened. The cry did not reoccur, but she noticed a noisome stench emanating from the ominous chamber. The putrid reek oozed underneath the door, polluting the apartment's dusty air. She knew that acidic, smoky fetor well. A warning smell.

"Sulfur!" she gasped.

Demons! But the cries had sounded human. Half Breeds? Was there a half breed in the bathroom? Why hadn't she sensed it? She had to do something. But what? Enter the room? Leave the hotel? Return to Los Angeles? She needed-

"Joooooohn!" came the audible wail.

John? John Constantine? Curiosity replaced her fear.

"Constanteeeeeene!" the voice persisted. "Help meeeeee."

A friend in need?

Without another thought, Angela grabbed the bathroom doorknob. She promptly recoiled. The metal handle was absolutely freezing, yet the apartment smouldered in a diaphanous fire. Impossible!

Summoning more courage, she approached the doorknob. The glacial coldness burned the air, like steam evaporating from a simmering stove. Bracing herself for the chill, she grasped the handle. Her palm was instantly numbed. Taking a deep breath, she wrenched the doorknob leftwards.

It didn't budge.

For several minutes she fought with the handle, but had little success. She hesitated. Wondering whether the doorknob was locked, Angela discovered she'd been twisting it in the wrong direction. She swore profusely, before turning the handle correctly.

The door hinges creaked groggily.

"Is that you, Joooooohn?" the voice groaned. "Joooooohn?"

Angela couldn't respond.

She tentatively pushed the door back. It slowly swung inwards. The bathroom's brilliant lighting pervaded the darkened antechamber, and infiltrated her sensitive eyesight. Angela blinked repeatedly, seeking relief from the icy illumination.

The door no longer blocked the sulfur's passageway, and the noxious fumes invaded the antechamber at full force. Coughing and heaving, she removed the malicious air from her throat and lungs. She pressed the leather gun holster against her nose. The perfumery fabric eliminated Hell's virulent odour. She clutched the firearm in her other hand, and kept it trained on the widening doorway.

As the bathroom came into focus, more freezing air flooded through the antechamber. Multiple icicles slid down her spine, and she shivered violently. The cold was painful. White vapour emerged from her mouth, like dwindling ghosts. The gun's hot metal had cooled; now both hands were thoroughly numbed.

The door stopped moving and her heartbeat increased dramatically. Breathing heavily, she stared into the portentous room. A ghastly sight greeted her eyes.

The bathroom was empty.

Until she glanced into the bathtub.

"Oh, God!" she shrieked.

The plug hole must have regurgitated the grotesque manifestation. An emaciated man crouched in the tub. He had his legs pressed against his chest, like those of a malformed spider. His scrawny arms were entwined around his knobbly knees, further exaggerating the arachnid resemblance. He wore a tattered shirt, being too big for his diminutive frame. Glistening black beetles clung to the ripped fibres, and bleached lice lined the torn cuffs. Millipedes wriggled across his cadaverous skin, intermingling with the brown hairs. Baggy trousers covered his legs, and they too were covered in incongruous flies. The bathroom was filled with a tremendous buzzing.

Angela pointed the gun at him. He whimpered cowardly, and quickly shielded his face, with his skeletal hands. The rapid movement sent several insects dropping to the bathtub's base. The marble flooring had disappeared from view. No water. A sea of insects. He floated atop the writhing, waggling waves. Beneath his trainers were many broken bodies. Grey fluid had splattered his soiled soles, and their crushed corpses twitched convulsively. Life had abandoned them.

"Don't shoot!" he begged fearfully. "I'm just a harmless old man!"

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Gary Lester," he whined. "John's friend."

"John Constantine?" she commanded.

He nodded. She had detected an English accent. Perhaps from the North. Newcastle?

She moved the authoritative gun, and Lester lowered his trembling hands. For the first time, she glimpsed his visage. He looked older than John; possibly forty-five. Thick wrinkles dirtied his forehead, and small beetles wove in and out of the deep grooves. She remembered that face. The face of decay. One Halloween she'd discovered a decomposing pumpkin, with maggots projecting from its putrefied flesh. Those swollen, pulsating bodies had given her nightmares for weeks. Now her nightmare had returned.

Even his hair reminded her of the pumpkin's gristly greenery. The front of his translucent skull was bald, and the back was covered in stringy brown strands. It fell over his face in grimy streaks, and stopped at his narrow shoulder blades. Black flies nestled and bred in his stringy hair. They even danced over his exposed forehead and gaunt, haggard cheekbones.

"What are you doing here?" Angela ordered.

"I sensed something," he spluttered. "I thought it was John."

"You sensed me," she declared.

His green eyes were especially reminiscent of the pumpkin's carved ones. They'd been gorged from the flesh, leaving only the hollow, black sockets. The flies buried near these vacuous organs, feasting on the visceral fluids.

"But I need John!" Lester sobbed. "Who are you?"

"I'm a police officer," she began. "I know John."

"Thank God!" he breathed. "Will you help me?"

_**Damn you, Constantine.**_

**ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 19TH AUGUST**


	4. Chapter Three

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

An enormous thank you to Silverbloodrain, jeaynie, fanficgeek, Ink Splash, Jim and Xelena. I am extremely grateful for your kind feedback. Cheers! Also just a general warning; the following character in this chapter originates from the comic book and the deleted scenes. I'll let you guess who this is…

**Chapter Three**

Henry Wambach. It had been his name. Now his wife was a widow, and his children were fatherless.

"Thank God that's over," Constantine remarked.

He strolled into the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Solid wood struck solid wood. A deafening crash reverberated throughout the high, hollow sepulchre. When the echo eventually subsided, answering calls resounded from the ground floor.

The bowling alley was open twenty four hours a day. Like a cacophonous lullaby, the thunderous collisions rocked him out of sleep. He spent half the night chasing unconsciousness…

"… And the other half trapped in nightmares," he sulked.

"You poor old soul!" giggled a familiar voice. "Pitiable little Johnny!"

He ignored the speaker's presence and the perspicuous comments. He inwardly rebuked himself for muttering aloud. These miserable musings always engaged his attention, right until he surrendered defence's protective shield.

He paced deeper into the chamber. His solid shoe soles clomped against the resonant, wooden floorboards. Words. The brisk crunches and the bowling crashes, chanted a forlorn mantra together. **_Gone. Gone. Gone. They are all gone. _**

"I don't need reminding," he whispered.

"Jaaaaaahn," the voice cooed.

He feigned nonchalance.

He reached the oak table, marking the room's halfway point. Several chairs were tucked into its wooden slits. He removed his overcoat, and slung it across the head chair. His belligerent shoulders suddenly seemed lighter. The coat fabric wasn't very heavy, so he blamed the items weighing down his interior pockets. Now dressed in his thin, formal shirt, he experienced additional relief from the day's suffocating ardour. Although evening had arrived, the heat refused to die. Unrelenting.

He stooped over the chair, making his spine complain angrily. After his confrontation with Wambach, a relentless pain had munched through his backbone. And continued to do so. He felt like an expiring man; not quite dead, not quite alive**_. So what's new? _**

He grabbed the chair, thus reducing the irksome discomfort. His hands tightened around the oaken frame, until the wood's rigidity stung his palms. The overcoat partially blunted the bite. Pleasure and pain. Lately the latter filled his life. But he'd force this intruder to provide the former.

He'd already unbuttoned his shirt cuffs. Removing his existing clothes would guarantee instantaneous pleasure. But it wasn't time. Yet. Instead he studied his bare arms, particularly the blackened tattoos, scorched into his ashen flesh. Another flame had burnt through his egotistical epidermis and malicious memory.

"Jaaaaaahn," called the sultry voice.

"Ellie," he growled.

"Oh John," she admonished. "Aren't you pleased to see me?"

_**Yes.**_

Constantine stopped staring at his scarred wrists, and instead studied Ellie's stunning silhouette. God! He needed love. Not the mental kind, just the physical release. He wanted his abraded heart to be drowned in blood. She knew where the wounds existed, and had reopened them for years. **_Again! _**Soon sharp claws would wrench twisted scabs from maimed membranes. **_Again! _**Then she would feast on the gushing red fluid. **_Again! _**And he'd enjoy the conglomeration of pain and pleasure. **_Again and again and again!_**

Willing and waiting. She sat on his wide, double bed. Long brown hair encompassed her shoulders, exaggerating the pallid complexion. She returned his gaze and beamed seductively. Her facial features were soft and vulnerable, yet solidarity and menace existed underneath.

"Come join me, John," she beckoned.

He nodded slowly. "I'll **_come_** soon."

"Make sure you do," she smirked.

She rested against his bedstead. The large sheets practically engulfed her petite frame, but somehow, her mischievous presence filled the entire room. And his sexual hunger followed closely behind. Unlike her luscious, pouting lips, her clothes communicated the real truth about their relationship. She wore a black miniskirt, which barely hid her outstretched legs. A scarlet chemise hugged her chest tightly, emphasising the two prominent peaks, pointing upwards. His voracious eyes were spoilt for choice. Top or bottom?

With exaggerated movements, she skilfully leant forwards. This generous aerial view made his starvation become intolerable. He examined her succulent chest **_again and again and again._**

She stroked the leopard print duvet, further capturing his watchful attention. Her manicured fingernails scratched the grainy sheet, creating harsh, swishing sounds. He imagined those nails, gorging the flesh from his back.

"You don't usually visit my apartment," he observed. "You said it smelt like a chimney."

"And it still does," she sniggered. "Have you ever thought about purchasing an air freshener, or two?"

"I already tried them," he grumbled. "Open windows too. Not much luck though."

He actually liked the stale stench, although it made his tobacco cravings grow worse. Several times he had almost succumbed to his nicotine urges. He'd even removed his emergency cigarettes from the cupboard, but alcohol had prevented any further action.

"You need to wash your blinds," she admonished. "And the floor needs a good scrub. Honestly John, you need a maid!"

"Quit trying to change the subject," he ordered. "What do you really want? Are you looking for another favour? Money, perhaps?"

"Oh, John!" she mocked. "Why would I **_ask_** you for money? I can just **_steal_** your wallet, like last time. Do you really think so little of me?"

"There's always a catch," he grunted.

His jaw worked agitatedly. He had some nicotine gum lodged between his back molars, but he couldn't taste anything. The original, acrid flavour had disappeared long ago. His present piece had lasted an hour, although he usually replaced them every thirty minutes. So far today, he'd wasted forty strips. All in good reason.

Shortly after Wambach's death, the emergency services had arrived. Much to the exorcist's chagrin, Detective Weiss had conducted the investigation. Constantine and Weiss were sworn enemies. They had initially met when he'd been arrested for **_assaulting an allegedly possessed bishop_**. Since then they'd encountered a problem, where one would interrupt the other's work. Weiss would disrupt exorcisms, and Constantine would interfere with bizarre crime scenes. They drove each other mad.

The rivalry had invaded their personal lives. Weiss worshipped Angela like a Goddess; he serenaded her with expensive gifts. Flowers? Chocolates? Champagne? What an ass kisser! Because Angela had befriended John, Weiss's possessiveness had grown intolerable. Whenever John left his apartment, the jealous detective would hover nearby. John threatened California's society and Weiss's social life. One day she'd have to choose between them. Frankly the exorcist couldn't care less. He didn't fancy buying her expensive presents, when he could finance his selfish desires instead.

Owing to the detective's resentment, Constantine had found himself in police custody. He'd spent today at the station, being interrogated by Weiss. Angela's name had reoccurred thirty-three times. After recounting the restaurant incident, Constantine had been allowed to leave. He'd promptly returned to his apartment. Ironically enough, it felt far gloomier than the station, but at least the prison warden was an attractive woman.

"I haven't seen you for awhile," he mentioned. "Since I deported your friends at the hospital."

"You certainly know how to gatecrash a party," Ellie teased. "Do you want to gatecrash another?"

"Not really in the gate crashing mood," he declined.

"You're hurting my feelings, John!" she goaded. "What a gentleman!"

He straightened brusquely.

Abandoning the table, he cautiously approached his bed. As he drew nearer, True Sight took effect. Reality seared his sensitive corneas. Ellie's luminous appearance flickered erratically, like a failing light bulb, or a dying sun.

The false radiance finally expired, plunging her into genuine darkness. Her smooth, pallid skin became rough and charred, whilst her glistening, velvety hair transformed into dull, leathery strands. Those moist, fleshy lips were now parched and cracked, and the mouth grinned at him with decayed, discoloured teeth. Above the gaping maw were two famished chasms. Sanguinary fires smouldered in these black, bleeding sockets.

Ellie's insufficient clothing made her actual identity especially unpleasant. The ill fitting top and miniskirt emphasised her noisome green skin. Entwined around her scaly thigh was a reptilian tail, the jagged tip swung backwards and forwards in a menacing arc. He disliked the way she lay on his bed, seducing his lustful appetite. He hated how his hazardous hunger could only be sated by masochistic sex. And he loathed himself, for actually favouring it over harmless human copulation.

"What do you want, half breed?" he snarled.

"Always blunt and straight to the point," she chuckled. "Aren't you, John?"

He snorted. "It's the only way to get answers from slippery mongrels."

"Always filled with charming compliments!" she sang jovially.

He blinked forcefully, making Ellie's demonic image disappear. Her false, human form returned, soothing his weary retinas. The exorcist detested True Sight, but at least he could control this sixth sense. Aside from half breeds, he saw through various obstacles and hindrances, such as darkness, buildings and even clothes. He'd neglected to tell Angela about the latter ability. John enjoyed exploiting his Sight, particularly around the unsuspecting Miss. Dodson…

"If only Weiss knew," he snickered. "The great John Constantine wins again!"

Darkness enveloped the mausoleum, making his Sight particularly useful. Several windows surrounded the room, but they were obscured by black, Venetian blinds. Only a glimmer of dying sunlight was permitted into the shadowy chamber. These fading beams disfigured the squalid walls and the filthy flooring, further amplifying the bleak atmosphere.

"Oh, Johnny," Ellie teased. "You've never even cracked a smile. Can't you be pleased to see me, for once?"

"Can't you tell?" he mocked. "I am **_pleased _**to see you! I'm always **_pleased_** to find half breeds on my bed."

"You're a fantastic liar!" she laughed. "But there's really no need. I've already noticed your new whore."

"Who?" he demanded.

"Pretending to be dumb?" she giggled. "What an incredible actor!"

"No, really," he argued. "Who?"

"The cop!" she surrendered playfully. "The one with the American English accent."

"Angela?" he realised. "What about Angela?"

"I've seen you," Ellie flaunted. "I know how you look at her. I know the way you touch her. And I know what you'd do to her. You like assaulting humans as well as half breeds, don't you John?"

"Good, bad. Foreign, native. Human, demon. They all look the same to me," he shrugged. "I manipulate them equally."

"Good!" she grinned. "Now **_come _**over here and **_manipulate_** me!"

Constantine reached his final destination. Resisting his sexual cravings, he concentrated on keeping cool and collected. Success! He stood casually beside the bed, watching Ellie's impatience escalate. He was in control.

The half breed sat directly opposite, with her bare feet intentionally pointed in his direction. He felt like mentioning something crude regarding foot odour, but decided against it. Considering his apartment's smoky stench, he'd just seem hypocritical.

He suddenly noticed the fork. It wasn't Lucifer's spear, nor Poseidon's trident, but an ordinary cutlery fork. It lay beside Ellie's bare foot. Dried food covered the stained metal, like a second hand murder weapon. A dead fly was impaled through the three prongs. He recognised both fly and both fork.

"A man tried to eat me today," he stated.

Ellie giggled. "You do look delicious."

Constantine leant over the bed, so that he was eye level with Ellie. Toying with him, she brushed his cheek with her tail. Those roughened scales abraded his bare flesh, yet somehow it felt carnal. He suppressed the urge to shiver.

"Cut the crap," he growled. "You know something about the restaurant. What happened to the fat guy?"

"You're no fun!" Ellie sighed contemptuously.

"What happened?" he persisted.

"Oh, John. You know I'm not cheap," she crowed. "You've got to do something for me first."

"What?" he demanded.

"An exorcism," she sung.

"An exorcism?" he snorted. "Since when have you been interested in helping humankind?"

"Since something got into my friend's daughter," she replied.

"You have human friends?" he sneered.

"I am half human," she scoffed. "Doesn't that entitle me to some companionship? And besides, you're human."

"Yeah, but I'm not your friend," he disagreed.

"I know you love me, John," she smirked. "You care for my safety too."

And she was right.

"You're wrong," he declared. "I only care about myself! I don't care about the fat guy. I don't care about this possessed daughter. And I certainly don't care about you. I'm not helping! You can't make me! No way!"

She grinned. "Then I'll never have sex with you again."

**ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 2ND SEPTEMBER**


	5. Chapter Four

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

Another massive cheers to Ink Splash, Grey Faerie32, jeaynie, Jim, Xelena, Bryan James and me best mate lc277. Thank you all so very much for your reviews! Being a rather sad person, I shall wish Keanu Reeves a happy forty-first birthday. I'm still working on kidnapping him….

**Chapter Four**

Balthazar watched the falling half breed. Framed against the night sky, the angel resembled a plummeting, crescent moon. Black and white. The enormous, mottled wings flapped back and forth erratically. Those delicate feathers couldn't quite grasp the oily air. Weak limbs flailed desperately, and so were drowned in the liquid darkness.

"This scene looks familiar," the demon sniggered.

With phenomenal speed, the thrashing half breed approached the widening ground. The angel's panicked screams entered hearing distance. Initially the masculine voice had sounded vague and uncertain. Now apprehension and anticipation dominated the pitch. These terrified shrieks shattered the night's solitary silence.

"What a beautiful symphony," he snickered. "Their screams are more satisfying on Earth."

An apple tree broke the angel's fall. Wooden screeches replaced the saintly shouts. Balthazar stood underneath the branches, watching the proceedings. Wounded foliage twisted and twirled through the air, like blackened snowflakes, or gangrenous flesh. Organic debris landed on the demon's shoulders, soiling his expensive business suit. With proud, contemptuous movements, he shrugged the leaves away.

"Another ninety dollar cleaning bill," he snarled. "I'm going to enjoy killing this **_idiotic _**half breed."

Feeble branches snapped underneath the angel, sending him plummeting further downwards. Crushed vegetation and cracked twigs led the way, as they crashed to the grimy ground. Several apples dropped from high heights, and splattered across lower levels. The damaged debris resembled disfigured entrails, minus the usual vibrant bloodshed.

"Soon," Balthazar smirked. "Soon enough."

The final branches gave way, and his descent was no longer delayed. Gravity grabbed the angel, pulling him to the ground. His stomach hit the earth first, making the air whoosh out his lungs loudly. The remaining appendages followed quickly behind; skull struck second and limbs landed last.

Two, poised, business shoes lingered near the angel's head. Three pitiless kicks concentrated on the cranium… Four gleeful stamps directed at an arm or leg… And five sadistic blows towards the crotch… Ah! Such splendid fun! But the demon resisted these lecherous desires. He'd torture his new toy leisurely, like sipping expensive champagne, or nibbling a delectable desert. He wanted his playmate awake too; the cognisant were always **_so_** amusing!

"Especially when they're missing a limb," Balthazar smiled.

He studied the fallen half breed, lying motionless on his stomach. His arms and legs were outstretched, like a misshapen corpse upon the cross. How delightful! The angel's splayed fingers twitched erratically, fighting back pain and shock.

"It's not over yet," the demon sneered.

The gritty ground hid his victim's visage and subsequently any telltale facial features, yet Balthazar found the half breed oddly familiar. He tried to pinpoint the recognisable characteristics. Was it the inexperienced, clumsy descent from Heaven? The lanky, teenage body? Or the short, geeky brown hair? Perhaps. Like all winged do-gooders, he looked the part. **_An idiotic prick! _**This loathsome image was emphasised by the fallen vegetation, clinging to his curly locks and outspread wings. Occasional breezes stirred the fine feathers. Despite these persistent pesterings, the angel did not move.

"I hope my little **_friend _**isn't unconscious," the demon sighed. "How **_very_** disappointing!"

Sharp shoes stabbed exposed ribs. The angel jolted violently, like he'd suffered an electric shock.

"Rise and shine!" Balthazar mocked. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

He kicked the angel twice, making him wail feebly. These pathetic protests highly humoured the merciless demon.

"Rise and shine!" he taunted. "Then fight and die!"

These final, threatening words penetrated the angel's thick skull. He lifted his head from the ground and peered at the intimidating demon. Was this his prey's defence tactic? Lying on his stomach pretending to be a tempestuous toddler? Pulling indignant, childish scowls? How very humorous! Balthazar would've hit him again, but curiosity halted his violent actions. **_For now_**. He watched the grease grimed maggot, squirming in the sodden surroundings.

"Rise and shine!" he jeered. "Rise and shine, you lazy little winged worm!"

Balthazar's insults made the angel raise his head higher, as though in gallant defiance. Hilarious! A winged clown! How splendidly entertaining! The demon finally glimpsed his victim's visage. Mottled blemishes marred the pallid skin, whilst muddy streaks stained the ashen cheeks. He looked like a bleeding jester. A red gash maimed his bottom lip, and its crimson leakage trickled down his chin. Balthazar suddenly felt hungry, but he ignored the aggravating pangs. Instead his attention fell across the familiar eyes, with their virtuous golden glints. And he remembered.

"**_You!_**" the demon spat. "**_You_** were **_his_** apprentice!"

"I still am," he squeaked.

Anger, bewilderment and delight infiltrated Balthazar's dysfunctional conscience. He hesitated. What next? He was spoilt for choice. Taking advantage of his indecision, the apprentice tentatively got to his feet.

He stood opposite the angel. Faces just inches apart. Eyes barely blinking. Red and gold. Wary. Balthazar disliked this sudden vacillation. Where had his smug, self assurance gone? His victim's identity unsettled him. No matter. He **_would _**enjoy this one.

"Did you choose that **_hideous_** outfit?" he sneered.

The apprentice looked offended. So **_soon_**? How satisfying! Emotional turmoil tasted divine. There weren't many half breeds who could be provoked so easily. And now he'd found one. Splendid!

Indeed like all angels, his white uniform was absolutely atrocious. He wore kitschy, effeminate garments. Gabriel had worn a similar costume during the Mammon episode, although his clothing was splattered in sludge. Quite the improvement.

"I hope you like high priced Laundromats," the demon smirked. "White always attracts unsightly stains. You should never wear white, my little chicken winged **_friend_**."

"I have a name, you know!" he protested. "I'm, uh, this is Kramer. C-c-chas Kramer. Asshole."

"Balthazar," he sniggered. "Your Johnny boy's apprentice? My **_goodness_**! I can't believe he's **_never_** introduced us before. What an **_awful_** shame!"

Chas grinned foolishly and stuck out his hand. The demon remained motionless, totally astonished by the angel's naivety. Did he really want to shake hands? How insulting! Being spat on seemed more respectful. Even if it was Constantine's saliva. But a foul handshake? Just revolting! They weren't acquaintances. They were sworn enemies. They fought on opposing sides and served different bosses. What a blatant show of stupidity!

Trembling furiously, Balthazar grabbed Chas's wrist. The skin was warm and podgy. Disgusting! Feeling utterly repulsed, the demon squeezed his arm with inhuman strength. His enemy shrieked painfully, like a bleeding animal, or a dying baby. Such beautiful music! He applied more pressure, making the angel collapse onto his knees. Now this was **_soulfully_** satisfying!

"My, my, **_my_**," Balthazar purred. "You're a very **_foolish_** angel. Fraternising with the **_enemy_**? That's a crime! Our bosses would be **_unquestionably_** irate. **_Why_**! They'd kill us all over again, and then banish us from earth. I'm **_not_** going back to Hell. I like it better **_here_**."

"Letmego! Letmego! Letmego!" Chas sobbed. "I didn't know, okay? Ah! It hurts! It hurts! Aaaaaaah! My right tibia! Leetmeegoo!"

"Tibia? I think you mean carpus, **_dear boy_**," he scolded. "You're very ignorant indeed. Your ignorance must be punished!"

"Leetmeegoo!" the angel wailed. "M-m-my stupidity is an illness! C-c-can't you make an exception this time? Just give me a slap on the wrist!"

"Oh no," he leered. "You're going to get the full **_treatment_**. And ironically enough, we're standing in the appropriate environment."

For dramatic impact, Balthazar lingered momentarily. Despite Chas's perpetual protests, he continued holding the reddening wrist. Since the half breeds stood inside a yawning necropolis, his wretched wails provided suitable background music. Rotting, decrepit teeth protruded from the craggy ground, shining sinisterly in the interminable darkness. These shabby stones generated more light than the superficial stars. The ramshackle graves were arranged in orderly rows, like deceased soldiers marching towards Heaven or Hell.

The demon's nose was powerful. He could smell the rotting corpses, buried miles and miles underneath the earth's surface. The odours varied depending on level of decomposition. The older carcasses produced sweet, tantalising aromas, whereas the fresher cadavers smelt sicklier and more malodorous. It was like comparing expensive, mature wines with cheap, premature fruits. Now Balthazar felt even hungrier. **_Soon_**. Soon he would feast on fresh angel's flesh.

"**_I'm_** sending you back home," the demon declared. "I can **_only_** imagine your boss's reaction. He sent you to Earth, and you return in… What? Five minutes. **_Oh_**! He's going to be **_dreadfully_** pissed!"

"L-l-letmego!" Chas pleaded. "I know what you're planning! Aaaaaaah! Letmego! Leave Constant- leave John a-a-alone!"

"You know **_too_** much!" he snarled. "**_I_** won't let you mess with **_my_** plans! Your meddling kind are a **_disgrace_**!"

What if his stratagem failed? He'd loose Earth. He'd loose his freedom and his pride. He'd even loose John Constantine. And all because of an interfering, snivelling, little winged clown. His sudden fears boiled into contemptuous fury.

He increased his barbarous hold, making Chas's arm crunch loudly. He fought back desperately, but Balthazar's grip was unbreakable. His thumb sunk deeper into the wrist, snapping through muscle, tendon and bone. The angel screamed frenziedly, whilst the demon laughed gleefully.

"Please, pleeease, pleeeeeease!" Chas begged. "Leeetmeeegooo!"

"**_Never_**!" he crowed. "Just **_enjoy_** it, **_dear boy_**! You'll be visiting your **_Saviour_** again, soon enough!"

Chas suddenly went berserk. His bare foot struck the demon's shinbone. The offended leg promptly crumpled underneath him. Although shoes would've been more effective, the kick still caused some discomfort. Temporarily stunned, Balthazar's formidable grip faltered and the angel reclaimed his broken wrist.

The demon recovered his balance, just as Chas went berserk again. He punched Balthazar in the jaw, making his head snap upwards. He accidentally bit his tongue. Agony and blood filled his mouth. He swallowed the cherished fluid, relishing the sour, metallic taste. Anger and bloodlust exploded simultaneously.

"A mere kick and a punch?" the demon spat. "You're just an amateur! You wouldn't last a minute in Hell!"

Chas didn't retaliate physically or verbally. Instead he retreated. He dashed through the graves, his cumbersome wings making little progress. He flapped them desperately, but an ill wind worked in Balthazar's favour. Temperamental breezes prevented his enemy from flying away. Hilarious! Even Scavenger Scouts were more skilled in fighting and fleeing. What a **_useless_** angel!

"One, two, three," the demon mocked. "**_I'll_** hunt **_you _**down. Four, five, six. **_I'll_** kill **_you _**slowly. Seven, eight, nine. **_I'll_** rip **_you _**apart. **_Ten_**!"

Balthazar charged after his quarry, easily clearing the distance between them. He lunged for Chas's back, his hands extended threateningly. His fingernails knifed the vulnerable wings, slicing effortlessly through feather and ligament. The angel shrieked in utter suffering. Drunk with pain, he started stumbling and flailing. Large feathers scattered across the ground, falling like autumnal leaves. The colouring was similar too, especially those splattered in crimson.

"You can't beat **_me_**!" the demon bragged. "No one can beat **_me_**! Not even the **_great_** John Constantine!"

The angel's pained screams turned into raw sobs. Was he crying? **_Oh_**! How wonderful! Balthazar laughed pompously. His fingernails dug deeper into the ruined plumage, until the gore stained his hands and shirt cuffs. Satisfied with his ritualistic bloodletting, he grabbed the wings and pulled violently. He tore through muscle, cartilage and feather. The ripping sounds washed out Chas's shrill weeping.

The demon studied his hands. Blood dripped from his fingertips and clung to his nails. The metallic smell made his hunger become unbearable. He licked his hands greedily. He even licked his fingernails. He didn't stop licking until his hands were spotless. He wanted more. Angelic gore tasted so very sweet! And so very delicious! Wait. That wasn't an appropriate description.

"Finger lickin' good!" Balthazar elaborated.

Feeling especially sadistic, the demon kicked his enemy's rear. The callous smack sent Chas flying through the air. Gravity soon recovered its grip. He struck the ground violently, his stomach skidding across the gravel. His feet pressed against the stones, and his slide became a scuttle. Despite his maimed wings, he didn't stop crawling. Fleeing, **_again_**?

Balthazar took three, large, patronising steps, and drew level with Chas's legs. He stamped down on his ankle, making the bones snap wonderfully. The angel didn't scream this time, instead his body grew limp.

"**_Oh no_**. I won't let you blackout!" the demon snarled. "You're not getting away **_that _**easily!"

He grabbed Chas's shredded wings, his hands growing sticky and sodden. Holding onto tendon and feather, he yanked the angel into a standing position. He shrieked painfully but received little solace.

Wishing to see his victim's visage, Balthazar spun him around. Those tearful, pleading eyes stared back at him. Translucent tears mixed with muddy smears, forming dirty trails. Underneath the skin, red and white clashed together, representing blood loss and agony. More crimson tinctures speckled his white clothing. Such a splendid colour!

He suddenly noticed something behind Chas. A single, solitary gravestone stood surveying the situation.

"Still finding his way," he read the inscription. "Chas Kramer. That's your human grave? **_Oh_**! How **_divine_**!"

Chas didn't answer. How annoying! Still holding his broken wings, Balthazar hoisted him higher. He shrieked again, satisfying the ruthless demon. His victim's feet dangled above the ground, his balance relying on the wounded wings. The angel moaned and squirmed, but his torturer's grip was immense.

"Aren't life's ironies **_hilarious_**?" Balthazar sneered.

With tremendous strength, the demon flung his victim at the tombstone. He rocketed through the air, never uttering a single cry. His body collided into the grave, causing an almighty crash. The granite stone broke into several chunky pieces and scattered across the ground. Chas remained in one piece, but he skidded heavily on his wrecked wings. He lapsed into unconsciousness, his stomach rising and falling doggedly.

"What **_a_** shame!" Balthazar sighed. "I shouldn't have been so hasty."

Still, he could always revive the angel and play with him again. Ravenous with hunger, he approached the slumped body. But before he'd taken three steps, a dark silhouette stepped into his route. He immediately recognised the business suit and the formal shoes. His eyes lingered on the shoulders, where two jagged bones jutted from the fabric.

"**_Gabriel_**," he sneered. "Do you **_mind _**getting out of my way? I haven't eaten **_all_** day."

"You've no time," she chided. "You shouldn't even be here. You're meant to be setting the bait, not torturing worthless half breeds."

"There's plenty of **_time_**," he snarled. "This **_worthless half breed _**was Constantine's apprentice!"

"I know," she stated.

"Then you **_know_** his boss is on to us," the demon argued. "He sent this **_worthless half breed _**to complicate our plans. I will kill him. **_Now_**!"

"I'll handle him," Gabriel announced. "Whilst you set the bait."

"**_Typical_**!" he scoffed. "I offer you a job and then you start ordering me around. I preferred it when you were **_cowering_** in that pool."

"Go!" she commanded.

Balthazar was absolutely furious. How **_dare_** she interfere! She didn't even have any power! He could easily tear her limb from limb! But instead he cast a longing look at the lifeless angel. Chas's head had lolled to the side; red streams slowly guttered from his nostrils. His eyes were firmly sealed, and his brow creased in a painful sleep. Scattered behind him were broken feathers, all saturated in blood. The demon's desires grew unbearable. He needed a taste.

"What are **_you_** planning to do with the apprentice?" he demanded.

"I will take him to our hideout," she explained. "And then I'll kill him."

"For the second **_time_**!" he scorned. "It really **_isn't _**fair! Why should **_you_** get to kill the same person, **_twice_**?"

"Fine," she exhaled. "If all goes to plan, you can have him for yourself."

"Splendid!" he cheered.

Satisfied with their compromise, he turned his back on Gabriel and Chas. He would leave the graveyard and set the bait.

He'd only taken three steps when his foot crunched down on something hard. He paused momentarily and glanced down. Underneath his shoe lay a familiar square object. He recognised the ornate markings, decorating its golden body. Originally he'd visited the graveyard for this particular relic.

Making sure Gabriel wasn't watching he glanced over his shoulder. She was dragging Chas away. His bleeding wings smeared the muddy ground in crimson. How very colourful!

Balthazar quickly pocketed Constantine's cigarette lighter.

"**_Soon_**."

**ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 16TH SEPTEMBER**


	6. Chapter Five

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

Yet another tremendous thank you to Xelena, Jim, Requinn1, Silverbloodrain and lostchild277. Cheers for the wonderful reviews! Also, the demon in this chapter doesn't come from any sources. To the best of my knowledge, I created him/her/it with reference to African myths. Oh wait, **_that _**is a source…

**Chapter Five**

"This better not be a scam!" Constantine threatened.

"Don't worry," Ellie teased. "There are more entertaining ways to trick you."

"Yippee," he scoffed.

**_Yippee indeed._** He always enjoyed travelling through the twilight, especially when it brought back unpleasant memories and ancient regrets. Hmm. Perhaps not.

There were never any exceptions. And it was so very black tonight. Even his True Sight made the darkness feel sorrowful and bewildering. For safety precautions, he kept the Holy Shotgun trained on inauspicious shadows. Ironically enough, the weapon's torchlight created these spindly silhouettes and those perplexing profiles. God! How he needed the sun.

"What's the time anyway?" he demanded.

"The little hand's just left the three," she taunted.

"In English, please," he ordered.

"Oh John," she goaded. "I was just pleasing your puerile intelligence."

"Not helping, Ellie," he growled.

She giggled insolently.

Something felt wrong. Ellie felt wrong. That laugh. Those words. She always played with his patience, but today her flippant remarks seemed forced and fake. Ellie felt very wrong. Why? Oh, why had he abandoned the apartment? Especially during the early morning hours. Los Angeles's soulless midnight streets were no place for the great John Constantine, nor his exorcisms. Yet he'd reluctantly agreed, just to satisfy his occasional partner. They used each other, neither truthfully knowing why.

As though providing clues, the Shotgun's light occasionally illuminated the neighbouring surroundings. Sometimes he would glimpse Ellie's blackened silhouette, dancing across green grass and archaic architecture. For the past hour, he'd followed her through battered parks and forgotten graveyards. He hadn't seen the possessed child. Yet. The journey was taking an eternity.

"How much further?" he complained.

"Oh, John," she mocked. "Do you really dislike my company?"

"Do I really have to answer that one?" he grumbled.

"Always the gentleman," she snickered. "In ten more yards you'll get your girl."

"Ten more yards?" he scoffed. "Even without my Sight, I can see there are no houses littering this shithole!"

"Who said anything about houses?" she sniggered. "I left her beside a bridge. With the proper restraints, of course. Thought she might like the scenery. Her mother doesn't even know she's possessed. She thinks I've escorted her darling daughter to a friend's slumber party for the night."

"Bridge?" he snapped. "Bridge? You left a possessed little girl by herself? In the middle of nowhere? Jesus! This must be a trap."

"John, John, John," she mocked. "Relax. It's just a simple exorcism."

"Since when has an exorcism been **_simple_**?" he scowled.

He was the antonym of **_simple_**. Whether he walked further into the light, or strayed deeper into the darkness, his journeys were always laden with death and destruction. Tonight he'd chosen yet another dangerous path.

In sudden agreement, warning splashes assaulted the placid silence. A nearby stream spluttered and spat turbulently, voicing its contemptuous complaints. He assumed its waters flooded the bridge's gritty foundations, whilst spontaneously striking stray human bodies. More disconcerting sounds confirmed and refuted his presumptions.

A characteristic snarl simultaneously chilled and boiled his blood. The growling echoed repeatedly, as though attacking the bridge's stone walls. With each step he took, the warning roars grew louder and more barbarous.

"We're expected," he grunted. "Lovely greeting too."

"See?" she bragged. "Demons are politer than humans."

"That's not saying much," he snorted.

Demons. Angels. Humans. They were so very alike. Sometimes he couldn't differentiate between their crimes and his own. Before the lung cancer, he'd committed so many mortal sins. Yet the old self sacrifice ploy had wiped the slate clean; unsurprising considering the great deities were gullible suckers. Did God know about his ulterior motives? And did Lucifer really think he'd get his soul? Again? What utter fools! Constantine would continue performing virtuous acts, just to exasperate Heaven and Hell. Fifty years of good deeds… How hard could it be? And for fun, he'd throw in tonight's **_free_** exorcism.

But something still felt wrong. And he loathed this unnecessary feeling. For decades he'd exorcised countless human beings. Possessed children were always easier than possessed adults. So why should this **_girl_** be any different? Just another dreary job.

Constantine's professionalism slowly struck back. Lengthening his strides, he quickly matched Ellie's challenging pace. For several minutes they strolled side by side, never saying a single, sensual word. Maybe later in bed. God! He wanted her now. Why did business always come before pleasure?

"False hope," he concluded. "Or poetic licence."

"John's mentioning poetry!" she mocked. "Am I dreaming?"

"Yeah," he jeered. "You're having a nightmare."

"Mmm, no!" she giggled. "When **_you_** see the possessed kid, **_you'll _**be the one having the nightmares."

His jaw tightened. "What am I dealing with?"

"Superhuman strength. Some telepathic ability," she started. "Brown hair. Blue eyes. About five foot nine. Petite frame..."

"Not you!" he barked. "The little girl! What kind of demon has possessed her?"

"Easily irritated, are we John?" she purred. "Definitely not a Soldier Demon, or one of your typical Hell spawns."

"Well, that's **_some_** good news," he mused.

See? No Lucifer. No Scavenger Soldiers. And no room for potential mistakes. An easy exorcism.

Feeling more confident, he took the lead. His rapid strides clashing with Ellie's leisurely steps. Thanks to his True Sight, he no longer required her leadership. He could see the bridge looming before him, like a giant's submerged skull. Water gushed through the twin arches, reminiscent of blood guttering from punctured eye sockets. The puckered stone resembled decomposing bone, but it was only natural after all. More sinister, manmade destruction had befallen the cranium. It looked painfully flat, as though trampled. Godly feet had once walked here.

Metallic maggots feasted on the flattened flesh. Once satisfied they scurried away, engines rumbling and tyres squealing. As thanks for their meals, they left behind carbon monoxide and spilt petroleum. New smells to clog dying nostrils and living lungs. The only other sounds and smells issued from underneath the bridge, where the low growls and sulfuric stenches persisted. What an awful prison. **_Good_**.

"How long has she been here?" he demanded.

"Since last night," she chuckled.

"Last night?" he exploded. "Why didn't you contact me sooner?"

"I was busy," she teased. "My hair needed washing."

"Hah!" he scoffed. "So you spent the entire night, washing your hair? Why am I not buying this?"

"Oh, John," she mocked. "Of course it didn't take all night! My hairdryer broke. Do you really expect me to walk around with wet hair? I could have caught a cold!"

"But your friend's daughter," he growled. "Wasn't it risky leaving her in this shithole?

"Mmm, no!" she laughed. "No one ever walks near the Oceanus!"

"Oceanus?" he repeated.

"The name of this lovely little river," she explained. "It's pretty famous. I'm surprised you haven't heard about its reputation. Last year alone, over four hundred people threw themselves from the bridge. Because the water's so shallow, they plummeted to their deaths. It has the highest suicide rate in L.A. The living never wander here."

"Mighty cheerful place," he remarked.

Especially for an exorcism. Using this newfound knowledge, he studied the bridge's menacing visage. Something dark drifted through the damaged eye socket, like a slashed pupil dribbling black blood.

As he drew nearer, the vague blur came into focus. He watched the girl's shadowy silhouette, thrusting and thrashing. To little effect. Her arms and legs were tied against four, unyielding pillars. She communicated her indignant frustration through low, frenzied snarls. He ignored them.

Now and again, she kicked the ground angrily. Also to little effect. The water splashed vehemently, uttering its own resentful cries. Despite these violent protests, the shallow stream only splattered her knees. A shredded, mutilated nightgown wavered nearby, simmering like a broken angel in dark desolation. Even if this garment had hidden her features, he would have still recognised the demon within.

"Jesus!" he swore. "That's a Pardus Demon!"

"Oh, is it?" she goaded. "I had absolutely **_no_** idea."

"You're a bad liar, you know that?" he snarled. "You know I've never exorcised a Pardus Demon before. Christ! What's it doing here? I thought these guys were strictly African. Zaire to be precise. Maybe even Sudan."

"So?" she taunted. "Perhaps it's on holiday?"

"Not helping, Ellie!" he snapped. "I'm not doing this exorcism. I don't have the right knowledge. Midnite. He knows. He's lived in Africa. But me? I really shouldn't be doing this."

"Should but will," she persisted. "Besides how hard could it be? Possessed kids are always easy to exorcise."

He snorted. "You've never even performed an exorcism and now suddenly you're all knowing? Please! Don't insult my intelligence, Ellie."

Idiot or mastermind, he couldn't save the girl. It was far too late. He knew this even without his True Sight; the Pardus Demon had grotesquely deformed her external appearance. This was always fatal. She'd been consumed from the inside out, just like a terminal illness.

The girl's visage looked particularly alarming. Her ears had swollen into two bulbous blobs, as though the flesh and bone had been brutally pulverised. Similar violence had befallen her nose and mouth. The nasal cavities had been smashed beyond repair, and the jaws forcefully stretched outwards. Constantine suddenly felt hot, unbearable anger.

"Why do these pricks always get inside small children?" he growled.

"How very compassionate, John!" Ellie teased. "I didn't realise you were a family man. Maybe you could marry your cop friend and start a family? I can picture it now! You'll be at home cooking, cleaning and looking after the baby, whilst she's out fighting crime and committing adultery!"

"You're very welcome to baby sit," he grumbled. "You've already done such a splendid job looking after this child! Tying her up in the water. Christ! You **_had_** to make this more uncomfortable, didn't you?"

"Oh, John," she mocked. "Your affection for kids **_really_** touches me."

"Actually I was talking about **_my_** comfort," he stated. "These shoes will never dry out! I threw away the two hundred dollar ones because of that goddamn hydrotherapy pool."

"What a shame!" she giggled. "How long does it take to **_dry out _**your thick skull? Or do you just lose more brain cells?"

He grunted sharply, effectively communicating his indignation. For good measure, he glanced over his shoulder, glowering disapprovingly. She just smiled smugly, further infuriating him. But something still felt wrong. Ellie felt wrong. Her snide remarks were **_too _**forced. She never blatantly insulted his intelligence, unless she wanted to provoke a reaction. But why?

Quickly supplying an answer, the possessed girl snarled furiously. Growing more attentive, he resumed his examination. She fought aggressively against her bonds, sensing his close proximity and knowing his intentions.

"You should have stayed in Hell," he declared. "Now I'm going to deport your sorry ass."

The Pardus Demon immediately acknowledged his words. A furious growl issued from the wide, malformed lips, but large, crooked fangs stifled the cry's impact. She communicated further hatred through sickly, amber eyes. These yellowed pupils protruded from the bristled black hair, which feasted on her fleshy features like frenzied flies.

Oily quills grotesquely covered her body. The Pardus Demon had even deformed her hands and feet. They ended in enormous, sharp talons. Flashing like iced ivory. Despite this barbaric invasion, her physique still remained pathetically human. Pathetically childlike. Pathetically fragile.

"How old is the girl?" he demanded.

"In the one digit stage," Ellie teased. "Nine."

"Nine?" he barked. "Christ! There's no way she'll survive this exorcism. If only she'd been older. Sixteen, maybe. But nine? She's just not physically or mentally strong enough. There's no way I can save this girl!"

"Why, John," she mocked. "I didn't think you were so negative."

"I'm being realistic," he snarled. "But one way or the other, I'll deport this demon scum. Even if it means killing what's left of the girl."

"That's a shame," she snickered. "One less Christmas card this year then."

"Too bad," he scoffed. "Never mind, eh? I bet a popular girl like you gets **_thousands_**."

"Mmm, no!" she giggled. "More like ten. Still that's ten more than you!"

Before he could exchange another insult with Ellie, the possessed girl voiced her own objections. She roared murderously, making his eardrums ring in absolute agony. He hated being so very close.

He stopped walking, deliberately distancing himself from the Pardus Demon. Ellie reached his side and stood beside him. He regarded the possessed girl momentarily, aware that it was time for the exorcism.

"This'll be fun," he mused. "Are you ready?"

"Of course!" she laughed. "I'm always ready for you, John."

"Good!" he snapped. "You stay here. You're strictly backup in case things get messy."

Constantine spat out his nicotine gum. The mashed pulp hurtled through the air, twisting and twirling like a maimed acrobat. It landed somewhere in the long grass, before disappearing completely from view. He wanted another piece, but there were none left. Damn! He'd been too hasty.

He ignored these sudden cravings and walked towards the possessed girl. She fought against her restraints, growing more and more violent. For safety precautions, he kept the Holy Shotgun pointed in her direction. The firearm felt heavy in his hands, even with his shoulder's support. The cold metal chilled his palms, sending bitter shivers racing through his flesh. The frosty night had chased away the warm day.

Bracing himself for more, he stepped into the shallow stream. The icy liquid drenched his shoes and numbed his feet. His teeth started rattling, so he clenched his jaws stiffly together. Ignoring the coldness, he strolled through the scurrying water. Miniature waves dashed and danced around his feet. **_Lovely! _**

"Nothing like a **_lovely_** exorcism to get the summer season kicking," he murmured.

The words strangely angered him, and he shone the Shotgun light directly into the girl's eyes. She shrieked furiously, her arms and legs flailing more recklessly. He found the demon's suffering oddly therapeutic.

A large, circular object obscured the luminescent glow. Feeling cautious, he watched this unexpected manifestation plummet downwards, like a single, metallic raindrop. It struck the stream with a heavy plop, before sinking to the bottom. He studied the rippling water, immediately recognising the fallen entity. A silver, ornate coin.

"Balthazar!" he grimaced.

"Having a **_lovely_** exorcism, Johnny **_Boy_**?" sneered the familiar voice.

Constantine searched for the accursed pest. He strained his neck upwards, studying the bridge's highest pinnacle. A solitary black silhouette stood staring down. He recognised the slicked back hair and the crisp, business suit. A shadowy hand touched the stone wall, the knuckles supporting another antique coin, which glinted wickedly in a sanguine light. He didn't see any facial features, just two gleaming, red pupils.

"Coward!" Constantine spat. "Come down here and fight me like a man!"

"I will **_fight_** you," Balthazar jeered. "I will fight you like a **_demon_**."

The half breed lifted his free hand, the nails nearly touching his face. With furious, violent movements, his outspread fingers formed a vehement fist. Simultaneously several cracks issued underneath the bridge, where the Pardus Demon lay in wait. Balthazar had broken the restraints.

"You cowardly bastard!" Constantine swore.

Balthazar cackled manically.

Before he could retort angrily, the possessed girl launched her first attack. She lunged towards him, flailing her arms and legs madly. He quickly dodged sideways, but wasn't fast enough. Her thrashing arms struck the Holy Shotgun, and his fingers accidentally brushed the trigger.

With a tremendous roar, the gun rebounded in his hands. He couldn't position the weapon sufficiently, so the bullet struck the bridge's ancient wall instead. Just inches away from Balthazar's hand. Broken stone and desiccated cement erupted from high above, sprinkling Constantine in a rocky paste.

"Are you trying to hit **_me_**?" sniggered the half breed. "You need **_more_** practice, Johnny **_Boy_**!"

"How about I practice on **_you_**?" Constantine retorted.

He pointed the Holy Shotgun at Balthazar. He nearly pulled the trigger, but the Pardus Demon promptly knocked the weapon from his hands. It struck the stream with a mighty splash, and then speedily sunk to the bottom.

Constantine knelt in the water, searching desperately for his fallen gun. Before he could locate the firearm, the possessed girl attacked him from behind. She pounced onto his shoulders, making him stumble in the stream. Almost falling, he grasped the bridge wall for support. The scratchy stone scraped the skin from his struggling palms.

"You have absolutely **_no_** idea how much I am enjoying **_this_**," Balthazar crowed. "**_Splendid_** good show!"

"Why don't you come down from there?" Constantine snarled. "And join in the fu-"

The possessed girl suddenly interrupted him. She wrapped an arm around his neck, making him cough painfully. With supernatural strength, she jerked his head backwards. His gaze landed on Balthazar's shadowy silhouette. Crimson pupils burnt through blackness. He would see more.

Her free hand found his collarbone. The sharp claws punctured his formal suit and shirt, slicing open the flesh underneath. He shouted angrily, agony cracking his voice. But his yells only made matters worse.

He felt her hot breath burning his neck, making the hairs instinctively stiffen. She suddenly plunged her sharp fangs into his nape. He roared in furious torture. A fiery migraine exploded between his eyes, black specks and grey scrawls marring his vision. This was turning into a right mess. He needed…

"Ellieeeeee!" he choked. "A little help here please!"

No response.

"Ellieeeeee?" he wheezed. "Fine! I'll do this by **_myself_**."

He flung himself backwards, the girl caught beneath him. Her teeth wrenched deeper into his neck, and he felt the blood guttering down his back. He ignored the excruciating pain; his plan would work soon.

He struck the ground, purposely crushing her diminutive frame. The stream crashed thunderously, engulfing his body and soaking his clothes. His head protruded from the shallow water, giving him an advantage over the submerged Pardus Demon. Almost immediately, she removed her excruciating grip and he experienced instant relief.

Constantine quickly scrambled to his feet, water and blood dripping from his sodden garments. He stood beside the trampled girl, who was slowly falling into unconsciousness. Of course. The demon had possessed a weak child. So it too was weak.

"You got lucky **_there_**," Balthazar hissed.

"Maybe you can break my winning streak!" Constantine challenged.

He searched the bridge, ready to hurl more insults. But the ghastly apparition hovering there, made him forget these offensive words. A recognisable silhouette stood beside Balthazar. They both had blood red pupils.

"Ellie?" Constantine gasped. "You've betrayed me. With **_Balthazar_**."

"**_Ellie_** can't help you **_now_**!" Balthazar sneered.

Ellie spoke. At first Constantine thought she was addressing him, until he recognised the Latin words. He knew these words well. And they filled him with absolute terror. He**_ had _**to leave the water. Otherwise…

"**NO**!" he hollered. "Don't do this to me!"

Constantine charged through the stream, racing towards dry land. His shoes splashed loudly, accompanying Ellie's ominous chanting.

"Leaving **_so _**soon?" Balthazar sniggered. "But I thought things were just getting **_started_**, Johnny **_Boy_**."

**ESTIMATED UPDATE: FRIDAY 30TH SEPTEMBER**


	7. Chapter Six

**WORD OF THE DHARKESIDE**

Yet another massive thanks to Silverbloodrain and Jim, plus newcomers shangri-la-gypsy and Loopylou. Cheers! In the following chapter, I have disrespectfully molested Jamie Delano's beautiful words. I apologise for mutilating the Hellblazer graphic novels

**Chapter Six**

"I **_really _**am an idiot," Angela declared.

If only she'd alerted the local authorities; they would have arrested the bathroom trespasser. Right now, the police should be solving this problem, whilst she enjoyed her sunny vacation. What wishful thinking! She hated choosing the easiest escape, especially after becoming a distinguished detective. So she'd conducted this investigation by herself. Regret. How very painful.

"I-uh, um. Uh, excuse me, Miss. Dod-uhm, Dogson," Lester sputtered. "Do you think I could, uh, h-have a few ice cubes in this, uh, Coke?"

"For the last time," she sighed. "It's **_Dodson_**!"

Every time he uttered another word, her regret grew worse and worse. Nothing sinister though. He was just incredibly irritating, more so than Constantine and his indecipherable mood swings. And to think they were **_friends_**? How was this **_even_** possible? John would **_never_** tolerate this man's incessant whinging, nor his persistent requests. How had Lester escaped **_unharmed_**?

Of course, she**_ wasn't_** childish. She **_didn't_** direct her anger at others. Instead she hovered over a nearby armchair, trying not to communicate her annoyance. She was grabbing the ashen headrest with furious, trembling fists. The gritty fabric grated away her patience, like figuratively flogged flesh. But she didn't voice these complaints. Unlike Lester and Constantine, she had **_manners_** and **_would_** suffer in silence.

Ironically enough, she lingered inside the antechamber. She'd originally stood there for hours, worrying about that loathsome bathroom door. Given the present situation, she'd wasted **_too _**much time over **_nothing_**. And it seemed God was now punishing her stupidity in the guise of a lanky, balding faultfinder.

"So, uh," Lester hesitated. "H-how about that, uhm, i-ice?"

"Later," she exhaled sharply.

"Why not noooooow?" he bleated.

Angela grinded her teeth together, feeling absolutely exasperated. She'd soon discovered Lester's most powerful weapon; he could wail continually for hours. It sounded like demonic fingernails scraping against multiple blackboards.

"You're not a very good host," he whinged.

Just one retort… No! She **_wouldn't_** resort to petty name calling.

Despite her mature, self reliance, she needed Constantine. She needed his stubborn demeanour, his quick wits and most of all his company. Or maybe it was the former? With one intimidating scowl or threat, he easily got honest answers from dishonest lowlifes. Having John destroy those repulsive insects would've been useful. Like most people, she hated bugs.

"The **_things_** I do by myself," she whispered softly.

Following her short conversation with Lester, Angela had slammed the bathroom door shut. For several minutes she'd fluttered outside the chamber, acting like a panicked butterfly. She'd finally calmed down and had concocted a promising plan. At the time, contacting the district police had never even crossed her mind.

Never saying a single word, Angela had abandoned the hotel room. She'd taken her expensive valuables too. She didn't trust bathroom trespassers, especially if they knew, or were John Constantine. Nothing personal.

Leaving the resort altogether, she had found a neighbouring Evening Standard. She'd purchased twelve insecticide cans. Her wallet had felt considerably lighter and her fears significantly heavier. So much for holiday souvenirs.

She'd returned to the hotel room and had attacked the bugs. Every single canister had dealt death. Throughout this operation, Lester had sat in the bathtub, whinging constantly. The Pondlife cans and his mouth had probably damaged the ozone layer beyond repair.

"Forget the cans," she murmured quietly. "His mouth did **_all _**the damage."

A natural disaster **_had_** struck the antechamber. White, vaporous mists circled the ceiling, resembling vulturous apparitions. Wispy beaks occasionally prodded her visage and stabbed at her vulnerable eyes. A painful headache throbbed just behind the sockets. The insecticide's deadly stench didn't help matters either. These noxious fumes were probably deducting years from her life. On second thoughts, her unwanted guest did most of the harm. Just by being himself. Irritating.

"U-uh, w-w-when are you getting the i-i-ice?" Lester nagged.

"That's quite enough," she inhaled forcefully. "You've stalled me several times now. All morning and all afternoon. Now I need some answers."

"I-I-I told you," he moaned. "I, uhm, have no answers. I, uh, don't even know the q-q-questions either!"

"I'll be asking the questions," she breathed. "I need to know how you got covered in those, those, those – **_things_**!"

"Oh, d-d-do I have to, uh, answer?" he lamented. "It's a, uhm, long story!"

Angela's temper flared. Whenever she approached the subject, he'd always use the same, unoriginal excuse. She needed John. No. She just needed her interrogative skills. Now, what did she remember from her police training? Patience. Authoritativeness. Eye contact.

She looked. Lester didn't return the gaze. Since she had escorted him from the tub, he'd sat in the same, neighbouring armchair. Insect free, of course. He hadn't even helped spray the bathroom afterwards. He'd just slumped in that grubby chair, grimy skull rubbing against grainy cotton.

"He still hasn't moved," she whispered faintly. "He's like some - **_some_** unthawed corpse!"

His drooped, frightened posture communicated grave foreboding, as though he expected the chair to open and swallow him whole. If he could choose between this fate and her questions, she knew he'd select the former. At least she wouldn't have to bear his company any longer. They'd both be winners. Until then, she needed answers. For this useful information, she would sacrifice her peace and quiet. And perhaps her maturity too.

Lester feared her questions. She could tell. His battered fingernails fidgeted with the stained armrests, like emaciated worms foraging for food. His other hand grasped a glass, containing no ice whatsoever. She wasn't planning on getting any either. He nervously swished the Coke backwards and forwards, the mottled liquid almost spilling over the sides.

"Yet another potential mess," she murmured angrily.

Angela's look became a glare, but he didn't even notice. His cavernous eyes studied the bathroom door. It was shut. She hated seeing dying insects, particularly the larger ones twisted into mangled shapes, and the twitching innards of crushed unfortunates. It had taken hours to destroy all creeping, crawling creatures.

"So how did it happen?" she repeated.

"H-huh? What happened?" he faltered. "What a-a-are you, uh, talking about, Miss. Dobson?"

"**_Dodson_**," she sighed in exasperation. "How did you get covered in bugs?"

"I-I-I'd rather not, uh, talk about this," he moaned. "It's a, uhm, long story!"

Angela's temper flared momentarily. She removed her grip from the armchair, and fingered the gun tucked into her holster. The metal still felt freezing. So did the antechamber. Since she'd opened the bathroom door, the unusual coldness had seeped through everything. It had even permeated her bones, icing and knifing the very marrow. Only her fiery anger blunted the bitter blade's chilling cut. **_Who_** was Lester? Was he dangerous? Did he really know John? She needed these answers.

She felt like threatening him with her gun, but it would just cause more pointless pleading and whinging. How could she get effective answers? Just be stubborn.

"I'm in the mood for hearing long stories," she stated. "I'm not moving from this spot, until you tell me everything."

"Uh, everything? B-but that'll take ages!" he complained. "And I-I-I need to leave, uh, shortly, Miss. Dotson."

"**_Dodson_**," she corrected. "You can't leave. Yet."

"B-b-but, I need to buy some, uh," he mumbled quietly. "I-I-I need to buy some, uhm, g-g-gear."

"Gear?" she repeated. "What kind of gear?"

"Uh," he trailed. "You know… Juuunk. Uhm. He-hero-heroin."

"Heroin?" she sighed. "That's great. Just great! You do know that I'm a cop?"

"You are?" he gasped. "But I thought you were John's friend!"

"I am! Besides I've told you at least ten times already!" she exhaled brusquely. "You really don't listen, do you?"

Lester didn't respond. He just shrunk deeper into the armchair, like a gigantic, withered worm. Angela's temper flared violently. Despite the cold room and her summery clothing, she found herself boiling with irate rage.

"Okay," she breathed, taking deep gasps. "**_You've_** got some cheek. I was having a peaceful holiday, until **_you_** made an appearance. Trespassing in my bathroom, frightening me witless. I've already had my fair share of scares this month! Making me waste cash on resolving **_your_** mess. I didn't even get a single thank you! I even brought **_you_** a drink, but no, **_you _**still weren't satisfied. And now after ruining my day, **_you _**want to buy some drugs! **_You_** didn't even invent any lousy excuses for those insects! My life's already filled with enough problems! I didn't need another!"

"Uhm," he coughed. "Miss. Don-"

"**_Dodson_**!" she snapped. "Learn my goddamned name! Angela **_Dodson_**! Detective **_Dodson_**! Now I want some answers! No more stalling! No more excuses! No more **_shit_**! Tell me everything! How did you get covered in insects?"

His eyes flashed fearfully, widening into two, sickly, green pools. Those gangrenous sockets suddenly found Angela's face. The stare was so very cold, but she met his gaze anyway. He straightened in surprise, defeat and despair leaving his lanky limbs. **_At long last! _**No more hopeless bullshit.

A solemn expression furrowed his facial features. Long shadows covered his emaciated cheek bones, intensifying his eerie visage. Neither light nor heat touched his eyes. They were made from impenetrable ice. He looked like an animate corpse, slowly thawing.

"I-I-I went to Tangier," he managed. "Like the, uh, the M-Med-Medina."

"You went to North Africa?" she verified. "Why?"

"I-I-I needed drugs," he mumbled. "B-b-but I was broke. I-I-I-I wandered for hours, rubbing shoulders with, uh, life. Everyone had something to sell, and I had something to steal."

He hesitated momentarily, drinking deeply from his glass. She waited for some time, her impatience quickly returning.

"Urgh!" he moaned. "This needs i-i-ice!"

"Get on with the story," she commanded.

"I, uh, I," he faltered foolishly. "Found a mute without a, uh, tongue. He looked Arab, uh, or maybe Sudanese. I-I-I-I guess he was somebody's slave. I took him back t-t-to England."

"Why?" she demanded.

"S-s-s-som-something wasn't right," he stammered. "He was, uh, he was possessed! I-I-I-I could see it in his eyes. Just like Newcastle."

"Newcastle?" she repeated.

"It's another, uh, another long story," he complained. "You'd better ask John about, uhm, Newcastle."

"Why?" she persevered. "John's not English."

"N-n-n-no," he mumbled. "But John worked in England with uh, B-b-beeman. Supernatural work, uh, of course. It's a good place to find rel-relics and, uhm, demons. He's even lived in uh, Liverpool, Newcastle and m-m-maybe even London too. I-I-I met him in Newcastle. It used to be filled with the p-p-possessed."

"Possessed?" she mused. "Oh! So you exorcised this mute?"

"Y-y-y-yes," he admitted. "It was, uh, it was horrible! The b-b-boy writhed and s-sh-shook. His skin uh, b-b-b-blistered. And they came right out of his flesh. Thousands of them. Swarming."

"What came out of his flesh?" she gasped.

He didn't answer.

"Mr. Lester?" she tried. "Mr. Lester?"

"Have you ever," he hesitated. "Heard a mute trying to scream?"

Now Angela fell silent.

"I-I-I didn't think so," he slurred.

"What came out of his flesh?" she repeated.

"Insects," he managed. "Thousands of insects. Millions of insects. Mm-may-maybe even b-b-billions. It flailed me with a million wings. And I felt its power. B-b-but I was stronger. I-I-I imprisoned it inside a bottle."

"What about the mute?" she asked.

"The mmm-mu-mute?" he mumbled. "The mute died. It looked like he'd been, uh, he'd been flayed."

Her stomach churned sickeningly.

"B-b-but the, uh, the, uh, thing…" he trailed. "Inside the magic flask, the uh, the thing writhed like smoke. I-I-I could feel it through the glass. It was hungry. And it still is. It wanted me. A-a-and it still does. The funny thing i-i-is… I want it. Want to feel it inside me… Scrabbling in m-m-my veins. But I-I-I resisted. For once, I had power. I trapped it, Miss. Didson. Trapped a demon in a bottle."

"Oh, God!" she gasped.

"A-a-and then at, uh midnight," he managed. "Its uh, its uh, f-f-f-friend paid me a visit. Like a moth attracted to the flame. This time a possessed, uh, girl. The demon had almost chewed i-i-i-ts way through. She was mutilated b-b-beyond recognition."

"Two demons?" she gathered.

"Th-th-they told me their names," he moaned. "Pardus wanted to rescue Mnemoth."

"Mnemoth? Pardus?" she repeated.

"S-s-som-somehow the fates of these two d-d-demons are linked," he mumbled. "They're hungry. Very hungry. One craves the human mind, whilst the other craves the human meat. They wanted me."

"What happened?" she asked.

"I-I-I was, uh, weak after binding Mnemoth," he stammered. "I couldn't b-b-bind Pardus. I-I-I should be dead now, but he saved me."

"Who?" she persisted.

"A-a-a, uh, a half breed," he mumbled. "A half demon. H-h-he restrained the Pardus, and I gave him Mnemoth. H-h-he knew John. He'd take both demons to J-J-John and d-d-destroy them. Said I-I-I was to meet John."

"Where?" she demanded.

"Here," he slurred.

"What did the half demon look like?" she asked cautiously. "Do you even know his name?"

"H-h-he never gave his name," he complained. "B-b-but he had a p-p-posh accent, and uh, looked rich. He wore a, uhm, a business suit, and his hair was all slicked back. A broker maybe. He e-e-even twiddled with a silver coin, o-o-or something odd."

"Balthazar!" she gasped. "We've been tricked!"

"Huh?" Lester whinged.

"He wanted those demons for something," she mused. "But what?"

"Can I go now?" he moaned.

"No!" she snapped. "You're coming with me!"

"But, I-I-I, uh, need, but, uhm," he faltered wildly. " Uh, where?"

"We're returning to L.A.," she stated. "We need John."

**ESTIMATED UPDATE:**

I'm incredibly sorry, but I can't update so regularly. I've just started University and don't have the time anymore. However I'm not abandoning this story; it's just the updates will sadly be very slow, (I estimate a month, per chapter). Again a tremendous apology, and cheers to those who have reviewed! See you in the near future!


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